Scars Don't Heal Placidly
by rousseurlyon
Summary: The scars from Somalia will never heal it seems; a constant reminder of what she's lost. Ziva's learned to make peace with it, but a newly orphaned child just might threaten to break through to her still scarred heart. AU; established TIVA.
1. Part I

**Disclaimer: Don't own NCIS or its characters.**

 **A/N: With the lack of TIVA on the show, I'd lost inspiration for my NCIS stories and hoping that it would inspire it once again I decided to write New Families from scratch. It seemed to have worked because I was able to finish it, so here is the new and improved rendition of New Families. Enjoy!**

It is not flesh and blood but the heart, which makes us fathers and sons. ~Johann Schiller

 **Prologue**

As a child Ziva David had quickly learned she could not count on her father except for one thing, breaking promises. Broken promises had become the one constant she knew she could count on appearing in her life. Promises made and broken, turning them into wounding lies. A cycle she knew very well.

The latest encounter with her oldest friend - here to relive old demons - had been in the chilling nights of the desert broken and alone, her promise of never allowing anything to make her so vulnerable whispered into the barren cell. That night something within her had sparked her untapped hope - carefully built over the years with Abby's overwhelming urge to crack down her carefully built walls- that she would make it home. It had been the last, for the days to come had made her break the promise time and time again.

This time was no different. Sitting upright, her husband's hand between her shoulder blades for support, her promise would be broken once again unbeknownst by her. Both had been a bundle of nerves as they'd walked into the office, awaiting news that would set the course of their life. "There's just too much damage." Though simple words laced with sympathy and sorrow, it is a weapon. They are the fabricators of such sorrow, inanimate beings that hold so much power. But there is no way to hurt the words without injuring the carriers who only try to ease the reciprocation of the stab and penetration of the words. For they are weapons capable of mass destruction.

Her life revolves around destruction: her family, Mossad and more often than not, NCIS. Her encounter with the joy of mending a life is almost nonexistent, though not by choice. She'd been raised as a weapon, the irony of it all.

After Somalia, she'd been granted a second chance at life. One she certainly didn't deserve but never once took lightly. She would invoke herself in more creation than destruction. But with that chance came stipulations she had not agreed too and just as easily it's snatched.

Her life and happy ending with Tony had been at the expense of another; again a broken promise of no destruction. She would never bare a child.

There's just too much damage. The words like a broken tape recorder taunt her mind; never leaving her at rest. The hold too strong, the claim fierce and it will never let go again.

After years of nightmares, emotional and physical reminders, Somalia had become but a distant memory, suppressed and stored in a locked box. But five words have unlocked the box she's worked so hard to put away, and transformed Somalia into a boomerang, resurfacing to return to its origin, leaving nothing but pain and suffering in its path.

The desert like a sand storm had taken so much, leaving nothing but the carcass of a once warrior woman behind. And again, it continues to take; soon there will be nothing left of this once hardened assassin.

Tony had been her rebirth. Like a snake she'd shed her skin the last night of her capture. The skin of a broken and fragile woman had replaced the Mossad assassin. Her second chance and the desert had claimed its hold on this too. Her family would never grow.

There's just too much damage. There will always be too much damage.

 **Part I**

The winds of the night creep through the cracks of their bedroom window attune to the owner's desires. Like a fined instrument, it plays the well-orchestrated symphony of jovial children. It is not a one man's show, for the moon joins in at the chorus, using its light to engage with darkness, creating the cherub faces masterpiece.

The show is not well reciprocated by its audience for it is an unwelcomed surprise. It's been a restless night. Somalia had been left behind a year ago, but like a hound dog it's sniffed her fear and found her once again. The trail of another broken promise has led Somalia to her and its left her with internal wounds. She will not bare a child.

Somalia destructs while the lingering winds in her bedroom appear as a beacon of hope. "It will all be okay." They whisper to her.

They grace her with a dream, vivid and peaceful. Small children are crafted within a backdrop of waves and sand castles. The dream is intricate, laughter, the sound of the waves as they dissolve towards the shore and the warm glow of the sun against her tanning skin. She closes her book, tucking it away in her beach bag and she raises her sunglasses for a better view of the children that call out to her. "Ima!"

Her dream self doesn't hesitate to rise from the lounge chairs and approaches the children calling out to her, their mother. Though she moves her legs quickly, her pace is a slow one and it seems that the distance extends out with each step she takes forward. Her hand extended she calls for them, but the sunshine transforms into a darkened sky and as she screams for help the beach scene transitions to an all too familiar cold cell looming with pain.

The feel of the blade at her throat is not an unfamiliar feeling, but she's rusty after many months away. It's sharper than she remembers, the blade at her throat and suddenly as she becomes aware that the slightest of movement will part the skin, she becomes paralysed. She does not need another scar added to the endless list for she doesn't want to return too marred. That is if she returns. But on this night, she holds on to hope that her best friend will rescue her and return her home. Home, where that is she doesn't know anymore.

The blade stays at her throat as Saleem unbuckles his belt and she shudders at what is to come. He is never gentle, but tonight he's rougher than he's been throughout her capture. Not only does he mark her back once again, he throws her against the wall, immobilising her. Resistance only angers him.

His pants are lowered and he's pressing himself against her rigid body. The rubble floor digs into her back and crawls into her open wounds, infecting them once again. She focuses on that pain instead of Saleem inching closer and closer to her. She stiffens but in the past it has only proven to be more painful, tearing at her insides and it's easier to focus on her other wounds.

"Come back to me Ziva," she hears his voice and Saleem stops. Suddenly he's clothed and exiting her cell, leaving her to rest for the night. They'd be back in the morning more than one at once; it was what happened when he was not satisfied with her.

She crawls to her corner, the only place in the cell that she feels safe. Closing her eyes, she wills to hear his voice once again and she does. His voice is so close and her heart pangs at him to return to her.

"Breath it out, babe." She hears his voice and she grasps to it, closing her eyes to picture him there. Reassuring her in the cold night, alone locked in the cell. It wasn't unusual for her in the dark of the night, the cool air piercing her freshly cut wounds, her body violated, to conjure up the images of the man that had sent her life in a frenzy. But even then, she'd known she'd been wrong. It had been her who'd betrayed him. She wanted to make it out alive to apologise, to ask for his forgiveness and fix things between the two.

Deep down, she knew, knew that there was no way she would ever make it out of the desert. So why, why was she torturing herself in living?

"You're home honey, you're okay." How many times had his voice reassured her in the dead of the night? How many times had she wished for it to be true? To open her eyes and find herself wrapped in his arms and how many times had she been disappointed? She was not willing to take that chance, but he felt so real. His arms around her felt heavy against her frame and she'd contemplated that maybe this wasn't conjured by her needy imagination.

"Return to me, honey." He murmurs in her ear, his warm breath tickling on the way in. Huddled in her corner, she can picture it all too well. Them cuddled on their bed, in their room, in their house because after he'd rescued her from Somalia she'd like to believe they'd fixed their problems.

It takes more coaxing, practice of a once steady routine lost. A kiss to her temple sends her eyes open of their own accord. Never in her pain induced hallucinations had he'd proved so affectionate. He had to be real and once her eyes open they find him staring at her.

"Want to talk about it?" She hardly talks about her dreams, fearing that her bedroom would turn into the cell that had been her home for so long.

She shakes her head and curls deeper into her husband. Cold hits her back and she turns to find that he has made his way out of the bed and heads towards the door. "Where are you going?" She turns to face him; tightening the sheets around her to provide the warmth her husband has left her yearning for.

He stops, hand clutching at the door and cracking it slightly. "I was going to make you some tea."

Though tea would be calming for her body she just needs his body at her side; something to hold on to keep her in reality. She shakes her head, her arms wrapping around her body in a protective manner. Her heart is the most vulnerable. "No, stay."

He returns to their bed, settling in next to her and he stays, wrapped around her body the entire night, protecting her from nightmares and the reassuring whispers that it would all be okay. For things were far from okay.

 **...**

"Stop staring Tony," chocolate eyes glued to her paperwork, she chastises her procrastinating husband. The day is filled with paperwork and with the anniversary today, she wants it to stay that way. A few more hours and, if no call is made to the MCRT team then they are home free.

Silence lingers among them, nothing but the scratch of a pen against a hard surface fills the void. This is hard on both of them. Though she blames herself for all their suffering. She makes it harder on herself.

"I was just-" he sighs heavily. He continues to provide an empty explanation but it is unheard as Ziva fills in his moment of pause with her own finish, 'watching to make sure she does not self-destruct'.

"I am okay." She waves him off. One lie after another, but she just needed to be okay long enough to make it home tonight. There she was safe to not be okay.

One shoulder rises and drops. A sigh that cuts through the cloud of silence sends an uneasy feeling shooting through her back. Apparently that isn't what he'd meant to say. "What is wrong?" What isn't wrong, but their real problems are stowed away once they step foot into the building.

She crosses the distance to his desk, standing stiffly at the edge. Her calloused hands come to sit atop his forearm to ease him towards talking. "Dad's coming into town and after the week we've had and now this," he sighs. "I just don't know if it's such a good idea."

She understands. His father is a whirlwind when he visits, destroying everything in his path. She didn't need more destruction in her life; Somalia was enough. But Tony and his father's relationship was improving and Ziva didn't want to stunt their progress by postponing Senior's visit. She would lock away all her issues for now and enjoy his short visit. "He will provide a distraction. Something we desperately need."

His shoulder rises and falls and suddenly his lap has sparked his attention. Though their relationship is on the mend, it is still rocky. "He will ask about grandchildren after his visit with her." The her he refers to is his father's new girlfriend. She's from a big family and suddenly Senior has become quite the family man; something that didn't sit well with her husband. He'd change for some woman but never for the son who had lost his mother and needed the love of his father.

She knew that was a question they would receive soon enough, but for now it was too fresh. "And we will explain but we will not dwell." Easier said than done. His eyes leave his lap at her words. "He will understand, Tony." Another lie in order to ease away the pain.

"After this I am taking you away. Just you, me and the lovely California beach." That sounded quite lovely. They needed time away; away from their life, their problems and their issues.

Her knuckles skid over his cheek. Her lips itch to have his taste on hers. But they must act professional, the requirement of allowing this relationship to come to fruition. Instead she sits at the edge of his desk, his hand coming to rest on her thigh. "Mhmm, I like that idea."

His fingers curl around hers, bringing her hand up to his lips, a kiss. "We'll put in the request for next month."

Her response is interrupted by the gruff call "DiNozzo! David!" And both jump from Tony's desk at their boss's call. 'No fraternisation or I'll move one of you to another team', comes Gibbs's words. She sighs.

"If I have to repeat myself one more time you two will be working the weekend shift." And this was no open threat. He would remove one of them if it meant the best for his team. He still abided by rule 12, but this was Tony and Ziva. The pair didn't abide by rules. But now, that was not a chance the pair was willing to take. Not with Somalia looming over their heads.

Behind the safety of Tony's chair her hand brushes over her husband's, her hand tingling with the desire to his touch. She goes to speak, her body rigid, squared off, but Tony stutters "y-yes boss" before she is able to.

Keys are thrown their way, caught by her stealth hands and placed in her husband's waiting palm. "Dead petty officer, grab your gear." Comes tumbling out of his mouth and he rushes towards the elevator. "Call McGee," he calls over his shoulder before disappearing into the elevator.

He takes her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles. "Soon Zi. Soon it'll be just the two of us and the California sun."

As appealing as that sounded, the getaway they desperately needed; the words just the two of us were as much a blessing as a curse. It would always just be the two of them, Somalia has made certain of that.

 **...**

Worry has a tight vice around her heart, constricting tighter with each step towards the house. A methodically crafted warrior, she's able to fight off the hold with her inner strength. She must never be weak and vulnerable. Though as she captures pictures, unease wrecks her body and there is nothing she can do to shake it. The two bodies that lay face down in their living room floor is not what has her on edge, she's done this countless of times; nothing has her quite like this.

Click. Click. Click. Breath in. Click. Breath out. Her mind is not registering the tale she knows Ducky must be regaling as he examines the bodies or the grumble of frustration Gibbs releases as he coaxes a time of death from the medical examiner. It is all static and slow moving objects as she continues with her job. The pictures hardly register, if she's taken appropriate ones she is unsure, but there is a strong pull towards the upstairs.

She does not hear her husband or McGee as they fiddle about their job. Does not hear his heavy footsteps as he joins them in the living room or the hand that comes to rest on her shoulder ever so gently. What she does hear are four words that send her for a spin, "boss they have a daughter." A child. Orphaned. The grip constricts tightly on her lungs.

She misses the rest of her husband's explanation, only hears Gibbs orders to search the house and she doesn't hesitate to follow behind him. Only to be stopped by Gibbs.

The team doesn't know about their attempts for a child, about the failure she is of a woman, about the damage Somalia has caused. No one but her husband shares this burden. The others are clueless to the fact that these words are clawing at her insides. Why she needs to do this, she doesn't understand.

"Pictures agent David." He's stern; not content with the defilement his agents have shown over the last couple of weeks. But he just doesn't know, if he did, he'd understand. Or so she'd like to believe. He was her father. She'd chosen him.

"I would like to help." She stands her ground, a fierce warrior on the outside, a struggling barren woman on the inside.

She feels Tony's hand come to rest on her lower back. He mumbles something about moral support. "It's a big house, I could use the help."

"Go," he ruffs out.

The pair takes off. Ziva runs up the stairs, slowing when she's reached the landing and searches the entirety of the upstairs to no avail. The last door she comes across and she's greeted with an ivory hue, a light pink cursive M adorning the door; a little girl's room.

The grip is tighter. Too much damage.

Shaking hand greets cold metal, a whining creek from the knob, as its forced to work for the first time today. The room does not display the scene that her mind has conjured; no blood splatter replacing the hues of the wall, cracked furniture or signs of struggle, but overall no injured child.

She sucks in a breath, the air toxic for her lungs. It's not air she needs to keep living; it's something entirely different. In a trance, she continues to the closet, slender fingers run through tiny clothes and she wonders if she'll ever possess anything that small. Wonders if she'll ever posses a child of her own.

Too much damage.

No sign of a baby she finds. "Downstairs clear," comes her husband's voice. Not one easily startled – years of training in place – there's a slight flinch to her shoulders and she faces the wall. Colour covers her olive cheeks and her hands wrap around her chest. Her heart is too vulnerable. If her husband speaks she is unaware. Her mind focuses on her barren womb and the missing child. The rest is blocked out.

"Zi?" He tries again. This time a hand comes to rest on her shoulder. It's the only way to grab her attention.

She shutters in a breath; daggers against her lungs. "Hey, you okay?" His voice is laced with concern, but she can't do this at the moment. One word about it and she'll completely break down. Then what would they tell them?

"Not here Tony." She sucks in a break. "We need to find her." Never has she been so determined to solve a case.

She feels as his hand wraps around her wrist but makes no effort to move, stays plastered to her spot. "Maybe you should sit this one out Zi."

That she wouldn't do. "I have to find her." The words are a plea.

"McGee, Gibbs and I will take care of that, go home." He tugs her along, out of the room and carefully down the stairs, towards their boss. She knows her husband knows that she will not leave of her own volition; it would have to be an order she could not disobey.

Their boss waits for news, the bodies loaded, the evidence stowed, it is the child they wait for. "So?" He is not a patient man.

She does not hear the interaction between her husband and boss, her mind clouded with such sorrow. She knows he is at her side, his hand protective at the small of her back. Her husband's right, she needs to bench herself. But she won't, someone needs to find the baby.

"David!" Her focus returns to her disgruntled boss. She'd spaced again and he'd been calling her. This was not helping her case. "Where's your head?"

"I'm fine." Her go-to phrase even she rarely believes flows off her tongue. She's not fine and she's not making an effort to show it at all.

"Like hell, you're riding with Ducky-"

She takes a defensive position, her body growing tense, her hands fisting at her sides. "I want to help."

"This is an order and I want you to clear your head before we return." He stands firm, but Ziva is not intimidated. Her will is much stronger, the pull of her motherly instincts overbearing. She will win.

"Gibbs," she protests. "I want to help." She repeats, her voice softer, vulnerable. She will play the daughter card.

His eyes soften and his hand rests on her shoulder. "Why is this so important Ziva?"

She freezes. This was not something she was willing to share as of yet. It was not a failure she wished to share. She would not burden her family. "Because I-" slips out, but she bites her tongue and sighs. She shakes her head, her vision at her feet and she returns her gaze towards her boss. "It just is. Please Gibbs, let me help."

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry Ziver, an order is an order."

She could not disobey an order. Though it was for the best. A clouded judgment would lead to her destruction; Somalia was a prime example.


	2. Part II

**Disclaimer: Still don't own it.**

 **Part II**

Carefully crafted words of a romance novel and a steaming chamomile tea provide a distraction from the heart-wrenching novel that is her life. The breeze skimming against her skin under the umbrella of trees sets her tense muscles at ease. Though she's exchanged the privacy and silence of her desk for the hustle and bustle of the Navy Yard, her worries and anxieties drip slowly out of her veins. The building much too claustrophobic and turbulent for her overbearing worries.

Abstract distractions take shape of a fog cloud, obscuring her vision of reality, but just as quickly it disperses, allowing apprehension a clear road through. The words of the novel no longer register and lines bleed together like watercolors. The distress to find the missing child occupies her mind and soon she becomes the author of the novel, transforming the romance genre into a murder mystery.

With the promise of a call, her hand itches to check her phone, excusing the lack of activity for its silenced state. Shaking hand, she pats at her dress pants, searching for a device tucked away in her backpack. Placed there during the crime scene and never once touched again.

Bookmarking and shutting, she stands, leaving the gentle breeze and warming rays behind for the dimly lit and suffocating office space. She's greeted at the door with a gentle smile from Bob and with a muffled hello, she's allowed passage through the metal detector.

Her pace quickens, catching the metal contraption at its arrival. It's empty, and with these few seconds of privacy, she leans her weight against the cool metal. A private office for the MCRT, the elevator holds its deepest secrets, the most recent her infertility. At the reminder, her hand cradles a flat abdomen-a barren womb resting within.

Plans are destined for detours and hers are no exception. But had life allowed her a smudge of leeway, there'd be a life forming within her womb. Maybe she'd start to show, her belly rounding to accommodate for the life within. The tender bump noticeable to herself and her husband–who has memorized every detail of her body. He would have noticed a slight difference. Another pin in her heart, the ache for the child she'll never grow to know; her seeds would never blossom.

The elevator opens to a physical depiction of her insides and she scurries to her desk, finding her phone just where she'd left it. But unlike before, missed calls and voicemails from McGee notify her screen. Foregoing listening to short and inexplicit voicemails, Ziva decides to call the source instead.

One ring. Two rings. A third and then, "McGee."

Skipping pleasantries, the words come out in a jumble. "McGee, what is wrong?" Her heart is pumping rapidly, attempting to join her side in the squadroom. Again, her mind plays writer, sketching out ending scenarios. But like Shakespearean tragedies, they don't end in happily ever after.

Silence lingers on the other end, the background noise prevailing through the receiver. But it's not enough to gather clues to their location and then, "Dr. Montgomery to OR one," reaches her. He's in a hospital. "McGee?" The plea sounds foreign on her tongue.

A jerk reaction on his part causes a spilling of words most uttered in troubling situations. "No need to panic Ziva." Think before speaking, for bodies rebel and react to the opposition. "Just come to Bethesda." _Learn to deliver messages, McGee_ , she thinks.

Speedy Gonzalez, she ruffles through her top left drawer. Her badge and service weapon join her at her hip and keys held tightly in her hand. No time for messages for the team leader or the forensic scientist she's agreed to join for lunch. The trek back to her car seems further then she remembers, longer as well, as Bob stops for inquiry. But focus on the issue, she avoids others and makes haste for her car.

An explanation is required of McGee or she'd have to dust off those Mossad interrogation techniques. "McGee, why are you at the hospital?" She growls as trembling hands grasp the steering wheel, knuckles ghost white. The roaring of the engine is her only response and it tests her patience with her coworker. American idioms are her enemy, but if memory serves, she's a short fuse. "McGee," she's stern, a mother reprimanding her child.

Exasperation of carried worries crosses distance and it sets her further on edge. "Everyone's okay," he reassures, but to no avail. Heavy foot on the gas pedal, scorch marks are left on the NCIS parking cement as her car is forced onto flowing traffic.Green, yellow and red, go is their only meaning. The honks and exclamations remain unheard as she takes control of the road.

 **...**

Fast and furious is not up to par with her skills. They're go-kart drivers in comparison. Her driving has caused cosmetic damages to her car, heart damages to bystanders, and a slight chance of federal property, but the consequences of her actions do not register for she's reverted to the young, chaotic and badass liaison officer and once was.

Toxic air fills her burning lungs and it's impaired her vocal chords. Stalling at the counter, she counts backwards from ten. She's no Gandhi after, but she's found her voice.

"Anthony DiNozzo?" The ringing phone trumping the physical patient, the desk nurse takes the phone and flicks her wrist towards the masses of people. Wrong move.

Mossad tactics kept at bay cry to be used, but NCIS training has taught her restraint, composure and she combines those tools to keep from jumping over the counter to shove the phone down her throat. A medium between both extremes is found and with a pounding of the badge against the plastered ledge, she asks for her husband again. 

"I'll have to call you back." Voice dripping with fear, the call is ended, and the phone returned to the receiver. Overworked fingers skid over worn keys, eyes attached to an ancient monitor. Technology doesn't seem to be in the budget. "Room 412, fourth floor. Directly across the nurses' station."

Though not deserved, she thanks the woman and searches for the elevator to wait amidst the crowds. A minute too late, she doesn't wait for the elevator to finish its trek from the sixth floor and asks for directions for the stairs. Feet hit the rhythm of her pounding heart, electricity coursing through her system and sparks illicit.

Each unanswered call from McGee adds a different tactic to his list. He might not make it past the first at the rate she's retreating to her old ways.

Bypassing the research center and neurology wing, she stops at the pediatric floor.Matted eyes elude the vast array of greens and blues patterned across the tiles, and the children's work decorating the walls.

McGee comes into his peripheral vision as she approaches the nurses' station, per the woman's instructions. "Is he okay?" Spills from her lips; pleasantries reserved for non-emergency hospital calls.

At his tentative dip she slumps forward, the norepinephrine coursing through her veins like venom. McGee settles her, skinny hands wrapping around toned arms. "Ziva, he's okay."

 _He's okay,_ she reassures herself. But the question remains as to why here. "Then why?" The nurse's search had brought up a result for her husband.

He moves her towards the door, closer to the only person capable of calming her. "It's just a dislocated shoulder." She steps around him, hand wrapping around the sterilized doorknob. "There's something else." He forewarns, attempting to stop her before she enters.

The words catch as she steps into the room and the outer noises of the pediatric floor flow into the bedroom, cutting deep into the silence that's taken residence in her husband's room. With the closing of the door, silence is restored and her husband catches her eye with a warm smile.

The smile, though well received, is not the source of a liberated heart. It's the bright soul within the infant.

"Zi?" He strains out, hefting upright with a wince.

Her silence is not an affordable response for her husband wills her to this room again. "McGee call you?"

Her head dips at his question. But tangible words escape her as she catches sight of the pair. "Tony?" Air is what she hopes for her lungs, but at the grasp, shards of glass are inhaled instead. Madeleine's rosy cheeks are not visible under the mask of purples and blues coloring them.

The toxic air scratches her throat, leaving her voice strained as she questions the situation. Her fingers tingle, the urge to comfort this child she's never met, an unexplainable connection between the two.

Her question doesn't need to be physically voiced, a practice of six years of partners and added years of marriage. "Would you like to hold Madeleine?"

Arms meant for mothering outstretch to cradle the infant. A fitting mold for her arms, Madeleine cradles without hassle. She's meant to be here, despite the unwarranted manner with which she came; call it mother's intuition.

"She likes you." Tony offers.

Her fingers skim over the baby's back and travel across the sea to their destination, the mountain of purple irises. "McGee did not tell me anything. Will you explain?"

Sorrow colored eyes remain transfixed on the infant as her husband regales the founding of Lady Madeleine. He crafts it into a story, an easier transition for her wounded heart. A crime novel, he begins with the explanation of the protector guarding the entrusted family jewel in plain sight. The antagonist of the story finds, creating a scene that draws attention of the crowds, and that's when they find them. Battling it out, resulting in injuries of both parties.

If only she'd been there, she would have played the part of the heroin, catching the criminals and saving the child from harm. She wouldn't have been touched. The ache returns to her heart and she knows that her demons are looming in the corners, searching for an entrance to her heart.

She should have been there. Uncomfortable with that thought, she rocks slightly, side to side. "Did you catch him?"

Tony shakes his head. "Got away." Not if she'd been there. If only she'd been there. She hears it in his voice how he hesitates for a moment and then stutters out. "Gibbs placed her under our custody for tonight."

Finally she looks at him just as guilt flashes his eyes. He feels indebted, she knows. That's the man she married. Always placing other's feeling before his. But still she's stunned, why would Gibbs pick them. Physically they've been at work, but mentally they're miles away. "Us? Why not Abby?" Abby was the safer choice.

"That had been his first choice, trust me. He's none too happy with us." He scoffs. "But she cries with everyone else and I mean everyone." The disbelief in his tone and the smile in his eyes, elicit a smirk she's found no use for in the past days.

Hand outstretch, he strokes his fingers gingerly at the baby's caramel fuzz. So much love oozing from his touch. He deserves to experience the joys of fatherhood, to see the flickers of joy that flash his eyes, the light atmosphere surrounding him. But he would never, for Somalia has made certain of that.

Too much damage.

"We're just waiting on her discharge papers." Tony relents, fidgeting with the strap on his sling. He was never a good patient.

As she stands erect, correcting her spine into proper position, her husband pats the bed. Offering him a small smile, she transfers the baby to his awaiting arms and fits herself into the mix. She doesn't ask for the baby back, leaves her in her husband's hold and instead curls into his side, resting her head on his shoulder and her arm on the baby's back.

Fingers lightly flicker across her back and the added weight doesn't disturb the infant; lost in dream world. She's safe. "I am glad she is safe."

Her head turns and her lips kiss his neck tenderly. She could have lost him. Though it's a far stretch, but with the darkness in her life, anything was a possibility. "I am glad you are okay too."

She rests her head against his chest again and tender lips caress her dark curls. With a heavy heart and a sleepless night, she finds her eyes fluttering. The baby and her husband at her side, she is protected from the dark Somalian cloud lingering right outside the hospital bedroom window.

"Sleep honey, we'll be here when you wake up." His soothing voice is the last thing she hears before sleep pulls her under.

 **...**

"You have such beautiful eyes, motek." Hidden from the troubles of the day, Ziva cradles Madeleine as she feeds on a bottle. Four hours of chasing dead ends and a tedious call to Madeleine's next of kin had left her yearning to comfort the child. A distressed call from the forensic scientist had been the excuse she'd waited for a much needed break from the worrisome glares Tim and Gibbs sent her way.

The infant's mouth pops, creating a milk bubble, which ends with the child covered in milk. "Are you finished?" A reply comes in the form of a soft coo and slobbery smile, her extent of communication. "I will take that as a yes." She chuckles out, a foreign sound on her tongue.

Discarded bottle set aside, the infant rests on her legs, held securely in her hands. Blowing on the baby's stomach causes fits of giggles that travel across the lab. A text from her husband breaks their fun streak and she's forced to meet Abby in the main room. Time to hand over her shield.

Weary of leaving the child, Ziva lingers in Abby's lab. "I'll call you if something happens." Abby offers.

Her hand gently ghosts over the child's small frame and she stands seriously before Abby. "I'll be in observation, call me if something happens." She transfers the child to Abby's arms and the vulnerability returns. Without the child in her arms her heart is unprotected from somalia's looming presence; it is vulnerable to its cruelties and she urges to have the child returned in her arms.

Abby nods, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I will Ziva, don't worry." Don't worry? She always worries.

Silence lingers among them; the only noise the gurgles of the tiny baby. Self conscious under the scientists smirking glare, Ziva shifts. "What?"

A shrug of the shoulder, but the bright smile remains intact. "You're just so." She pauses. "Maternal is all."

Her words carry more weight than the scientist intends. They are meant to be light, but it causes much sorrow in a wounded heart. A mother. She would never be a mother. "Madeleine has been through a lot."

But the words don't fool Abby; she has learned to read her coworkers with such precision. "You'll make a wonderful mother Ziva." Her hand sits on Ziva's shoulder.

Appreciated, but her words are razor blades, cutting deep within. Why hope when it will never happen? Somalia's will is too strong; it's injuries too deep and permanent.

The child so peaceful, so young and innocent. Unprotected in Abby's lab, the windows provide exposure to the outside world, so easily could evil linger in. Stalling at the door, she sets one foot in, one back. Feeling the tug of her two responsibilities.

"Go Ziva." Abby ushers her forward with the flick of her wrists.

Not even the baby whisperer is an exception to the 'everyone' Tony had mentioned, for the moment Ziva is gone from view the child wails. "It's okay, I got her." The crying continues and all of the comforting tools in Abby's repertoire are called for, but not a single one can calm the wailing child.

She knows Abby will not be successful in soothing the infant and ignoring the arriving elevator, she steps both feet into the lab, retrieving Madeleine from Abby's hold.

"Ziva," Abby sighs.

Ignoring Abby's reproaches, she soothes the child, exiting the lab for the stalled elevator. Ziva returns to observation, a mouse entering a room. No one but her husband vacates.

Old door, it creaks at the force exerted and it becks the attention of her husband. "Hey, honey."

"Thought you could use the company." She relents.

Gibbs is on the other side; silently staring down their enemy. Simple eye contact can shake their neutral facade, sending the most hardened criminals into a ball of tears. Her interrogation tactics are others, not well perceived with the NCIS director. With her personal agenda on the case, she was benched and Gibbs had taken the lead.

"Have a nice nap, sweetheart?" A fake monster he nibbles at Madeleine's toes, the action eliciting heart warming giggles to fill observation. Turning her back to the interrogation, their foreheads meet before their lips kiss. "Couldn't leave her with Abby?" He smirks. Hands outstretched, he becks for Ziva to hand him the baby. She compiles.

Embarrassed, she shakes her head. "She was crying Tony." She sighs. Weakness had shown through. Mossad training had forced its trainees to overcome all weakness, children her biggest one. It had not been much of a problem at that age, but her mission to America had changed everything.

He takes her hand, no shame in falling weak at the call of a child. "The aunt called back."

The pull of the gravity of his next words, levitates her gaze to his. She's not quite sure what she's expecting him to say. But either way, there was no scenario were she could keep the child and that tore at her healing heart more than Somalia ever would. "She's signing away her rights, so Gibbs had no other choice but to call child services."

There it is again, the ache in her heart. She knew from the beginning that this child would not belong to her, but somewhere within she had hoped that this child would be her beckon of hope. How correct she had been, but it would not last.

"Is she still with us tonight?"

"Yeah." Tony smiles. And just like that the worry was gone. She would deal with tomorrow as it came.

…

With the killer and his accomplice in custody, the team was able to clock out at a fairly decent hour. Paperwork was set aside, added to the pile of unfinished business, but the team leader had shoed them away the minute pen met paper.

She's grateful for the distraction. For the joy the child has brought into her life, but she wonders if having her will do more harm than good. She's a not suture, only a Band-Aid on a wound, ripped away easily. Tomorrow the Band-Aid would be removed and her wounds would be left bleeding.

"Zi?" Amidst the chaos of shoppers, the miserable worker announcing sales over the loudspeaker, and a high pitched shrill, it is his voice that pulverizes her thoughts.

Head rattling, she shifts focus of a dark cell to the fluorescent lighting of the retail store. In it, she finds her husband, alert baby in arms and a worrisome gaze. She recognizes it all too well. He's chatted her up and she's been distant, lost in a pool of agony.

"Hm." She musters up. Her thoughts were impenetrable, a force field surrounding it and not even his word had shattered through. She's at a loss for what he's said.

Energy, not really in excess tonight, is required for her desert-veiled eyes to fixate on her husband's physique. Her lack of interaction steals at his patients with her tonight. The sigh he tries to hide doesn't go unnoticed and it carries heavily on her.

"Kernel or microwaveable popcorn?" He repeats. Though she's sure it lacks the enthusiasm of the first attempt.

 _Does it matter_ , she wonders, the darkness still holding her chest.

Health nut, she answers, "kernels, they taste more natural." And the answer satisfies her husband enough not to press further.

Basked in silence, they continue down the aisle, skimming the shelves for guilty pleasures. A run down their mental list and she realizes that their cabinets are missing a key ingredient. "Can we grab some more tea?" She's shining through the cloud as the rainstorm passes.

Hand outstretched, he beckons her forward. Fingers of two different puzzle pieces mold easily to form one. Time ago, sultry position against the vending machine of the break room, she'd found her mind wandering, much like now and like a Freudian slip questioned, "do you believe in soul mates?"

After the abysmal end to that day, doubt tainted beliefs and she questioned her mother's sanity on the topic. Tragedy wrecked her life in the form of a hostage and it's that pain that restores her belief in soul mates. The irony.

Slender fingers skim over the selections of tea, her flavors dumped into the basket. "Would you like any kind in parti-"

Raspy smokers voice cuts through her question. "Your daughter is lovely, just like her mother." Anyone would assume, a couple with a baby in the stage where resemblance to a parent is still in a distant future, and the stranger is no exception to the deceit.

Frowned corners revert to a smile of their own accord. Her muscles responding before the words have processed in her brain. "We aren't- she's not-" sighs of a futile attempt break her lack of composure.

"Thank you, sir. " The jokester normally kept at bay by the mature man he'd vowed to be resurfaces at the bait. Calloused fingers trace rosy cheeks. "They are one of a kind, this pair."

"Hold on to them," elderly advise that springs from years of experience. Though the scars on his face, the burns on his arms and the frown lines that can't be corrected are indicators that this man has lived much darkness. She sympathizes.

"I plan to," Tony relents. Highly trained assassin and the best way she can handle this situation is gawking. She's an embarrassment.

"Have a nice night." She offers the man; her contribution to the conversation. She's not incompetent.

Turning stiff body towards the source of her discomfort, she spats, "what was that?"

Up and down his shoulder falls. He's nonchalant about the seriousness of his words and it relinquishes her demons. He plans to keep _them_. There is no them: Tony, Madeleine and her. It is not in their cards for the girl to stay.

"Giving the man what he wants." Squirmy baby, too long without the comfort of her trustee, cries for her. A practiced tactic, mastered with hours of practice, he hands the baby off, supporting her developing head.

Safely in her arms, he untangles the pretzel of arms from hers and returns for the abandoned basket. "Did you miss me, neshomeleh?" Smiles and sounds, her extent of communication, are used as a positive response.

As much as her heart yearns to maintain this dynamic, reality was this wasn't meant for her. "Come on mommy, let's go home." It fits. She fits and within her raised beliefs of faith and destiny, she knows that this child was meant for this family.

There it was, hope, that maybe it could be so. Maybe, there wasn't too much damage after all.

 **A/N: I had not planned on updates being so far apart, but two days after the first chapter was posted my mom surprised us with a mini vacation and then my summer course started and the days just got away from me. But I now have a set schedule for school and writing, so im hoping chapters wont be so far in between.**


	3. Part III

**Disclaimer: I don't own it.**

 **Part III**

Somalia looms in the ambiance of their bedroom. Tug of war battle between darkness and light, and darkness has advantage on their side. The rope slips towards dark and the warm cocoon of her bedroom is slowly drifting into the bitter chill of her cell.

Somalia swoops in at the final descent and she finds herself alone. Bruised. Mother nature battles with the desert and a dust storm flurries from the ground to the sky. A native of the desert seeks refuge in the closest shelter for miles. Pacing, it stalls an inch outside the only entrance to her cell, a flimsy rock. It's unwelcomed.

An old friend, Rivka's words return to provide comfort. As a child, these words were nothing but nonsense; with no experience with the injustice of the world the words meant nothing. The first meeting with a dose of reality had hit when her mother vanished into the night. Then her visits became a regular thing, arriving with Tali and Ari, and the moments before and after Somalia. Her words, "those with the most vulnerable hearts require a much harder exterior". Not the best of a childhood, but Ziva had been placed in a life where her exterior would become the armor adequate to protect such a vulnerable heart.

The howling winds relay a different tune; this one is in the pitch of a crying child. Hallucinations plaguing her mind must be the source of the change for they are the only camp for miles. All warriors, but they only see her extremities. One woman with a herd of men.

Another howl from the wind, but this one masks its voice to fit that of a partner protected and betrayed. "It's our daughter Ziva," his voice pushes through all the murkiness bottling up. A shrill cry follows seconds afterward. Her mind isn't conjuring this sound. With the realization of the truth, the cries are clearer than the outside battle. The sounds are alarming and she lunges forward, if she can prevent a visit from Saleem, she would. He never just visits.

Legs move of their own accord. Step after step, pulsing to comfort a child poofed into her isolated cell. The winds bring Tony's voice across the ocean into the desert. "It's our daughter," he repeats.

 _Their daughter?_

Bundle of warmth, the baby is a perfect match in her wounded arms. She quiets at the prompted shush-shush and swaying of her hips. Delayed pace after months of torture, the ninja is not a quickened leopard and her captors wake. Shivers trail down her spine at the clanking of chain, alerting her to their nearing presence. Arms securely tighten around the warm bundle in her arms and she desires to become invisible to their sight.

Sand crunches under the heavy footfall of combat boots. The chain is released and her metal door is opened with a startling bang, allowing a dozen armed men to join them in the cramped square box. No men enter and instead she's greeted with a blanket of dust, forced down her lungs. Blinded and left gulping for air, the baby is forced out of her arms and into the care of another.

 _Her child!_

Her survival tip has been not crying out and not allowing these men to see weakness but with the child in their hands, she does. Saleem approached her, a satisfying smirk plaguing his wretched face. He searches her eyes and speaks, "you or the child."

An absurd question and she refuses to answer. Agitated, Saleem shifts back and forth. "Who will it be?" He growls.

She spits in his face and he grabs a handful of hair and throws her against the wall. A slice to her cheek and a hit to her head. It rattles her enough to curl under his gaze.

The rifle at his side is positioned to point at the child. "I will not ask again." He spits. A murderous glint shadows his eyes. He wants a kill. "You or the child." Agitatedly, he shakes the rifle. He's unstable and the gun could be shot off.

Raspy voice from a dinner of sand, she speaks, though the words don't correlate with what her mind screams. Me, but her tongue translates "the child."

"Very well." He turns the gun at the baby. Fingers poised at the trigger, but he has not pulled it yet. There's time.

Malnourished, wounded, and frail, her body doesn't hold the energy for a fight. But the cries of her daughter are a foreign fuel her body hasn't been supplied with and she lunges forward; fierce mother protecting her cub. Harsh hands grasp her shoulder, though it isn't Saleem and she's slammed against the wall again.

Head hits cement and black blurs her vision. She can't come back from this one. The voices of the men become a distant sound and before her appears the creature looming between the flimsy stone.

She's a simple viewer, distanced from the men crowding the child. "No!" She screams out, lurches forward, but she goes unheard.

"You cannot do anything." The creature speaks. "Your heart is showing you its truest desire."

Baffled she tears her eyes away from the chaos down to her lost sanity. "My heart desires a child." Slender hand clutches thin, dirtied cloth, protecting split skin. Her desire to make it a reality, burning after she'd settled in with Tony.

"At the surface, but this is a dream of your truest desire." The baby squirms and her shrilling screams are daggers in her heart. Ziva musters up the remains of the foreign fuel coursing through her body and pushes forward. But she hits a wall. "You've hit fear. If you wanted it hard enough you'd be able to cross over."

She fights, fights like hell to cross the force surrounding her. But fails. Is she so plagued with fear that she's willing to allow the darkness to consume her? Mess up her chance to become a mother.

No fight left, she gives in. Falls against the wall to watch as the bullet is released and flys through the air. Before it reaches the child, she closes her eyes, and when she opens them with a startling noise, the bitter cell transforms into the warm cocoon of her bedroom. Air is forced back into her lungs, burning on the way in. Her heart pounds, the sound deafening to her ringing ears. Why hadn't she saved the child? The question plaguing her mind.

Soft breathing draws her attention. Two pieces of a puzzle fitted for one another. Madeleine is her beacon of hope, a child in desperate need of a home. Trembling hand outstretched towards the sleeping baby at her side, she wishes to comfort, but before its placed on the child's back she retracts. How can she promise to love and keep this child safe with the darkness in her heart? With her the child is not safe and although she belongs here, has been sent to fulfill her family, she cannot stay.

…

Steaming cup of tea, she retreats to their balcony- an advantage of the fifth floor privy to the skyline. Dark hues color the sky, the moon providing a warm glow to the shadows. Mixing of moonlight and patio light, her scars contrast sharply from her smooth skin. She plays connect the dots with the sky's freckles, finding Orion's Belt and the Big Dipper among others.

Somalia has caused irreparable damage, but the memory of her summer in the desert did not hold the same power. Somalia and its memory have caused too much damage and with a yearning look to the stars, she decides enough is enough. Something has to give. Boxing it and locking, she would bury this all. Somalia would not have the power to hide in the shadows, creeping and inching towards her in her weakest of moments. It wouldn't push her down or hold her heart any longer. She would fight as she once did to take back control of her life.

Mug empty, she sets it aside. It once housed her steaming chamomile tea, the liquid burning pleasantly down her throat when she'd taken the first sips. After minutes curled on the cushioned chair all that remains are a few cooled drops. The tea had served its purpose.

Nights are crisp; a taste of the winter months fast approaching. The breeze takes wind, swirling around the balcony. It cuts through blanket, chilling her bones and causes her to seek comfort inside. It is quiet, lonely and she's reverted to her dark cell. Darkness looms her heart, consumes her being and she clutches at the light to fight her way through.

Socked feet meet pavement, guiding her through the sliding glass doors. A final look to the sky fills her with resolve and she shuffles toward their makeshift office. She cannot do this alone, that mindset is what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

Slender fingers dial a number long ago memorized. She hasn't dialled this combination in months, but regardless she's greeted as if time hasn't passed-with love oozing in each word. The number is accepted; the ring changing as it reaches across the ocean and each ring fills her body with nostalgia. Many years back she'd come to accept that her mother would no longer bear witness to all that her daughter had done. She had accepted that her life would be a short one and deprived of family.

If her 28th birthday hadn't been her last, she certainly believed Somalia would be, but she keeps on living and now that she has a life; one with a husband and family, she wants more than ever for her mother to be around. Now more than ever she need her. She has Nettie and her aunt had gladly accepted the role as a guardian, providing guidance that her niece would need.

Her mother would know what to do, know exactly what to tell her sinking daughter, but so does aunt Nettie. It doesn't hurt any less, though.

"Shalom." The sun rises on the other side of the globe, its intention of preparing its inhabitants of a new day. The birds sing their morning prayer, a nuisance for those in a relationship with their sheets.

Her aunt's voice brings with it a drop of nostalgia for the home she left behind. Her homeland may have been dreadful from the moment her moment died, but there were still memories of a dreamer child.

"Doda?" She reverts back to that young girl, weeks after losing her mother. She'd been strong for Tali and in front of her father, but in her aunt's care, she'd fallen apart.

Quiet looms the other end and with each passing second setting her tense body on edge. She's not even sure why she is calling her aunt at all. What if her heart is right? What if she keeps the child only to fill it with darkness?

"Zivaleh?" Her aunt has been speaking whimsically for minutes to her non-receptive niece. "Something is bothering you, yes?"

Her sigh carries over an ocean. "Let me start from the beginning-" and the story unravels easily. The heavy burden she's carried on her shoulder shared between the David women. She can't carry it alone; it was nice to have someone to share it with.

..

"I am too burdened by my past. I am afraid that like my father, I would make my daughter suffer." The words slip from her tongue before she's been able to process them. It's her aunt that calls her out on her words.

"Your daughter?" She chuckles. "You need to stop thinking with your head and listen to your heart." A moment of silence from the wise woman allows Ziva to process what her aunt has said. "Did you hear what you just said? You have called Madeleine your daughter. It is clear what your heart wants." For her aunt, her heart spills its secrets easily.

Stumbling for a fix, she repairs with, "I meant my daughter I would one day have with Tony." But it's a fatal attempt at a fix. Her aunt knows well the issue within her. Her barren body that would not be viable for a child.

"You do not fool me Ziva."

She sighs in resign. Her aunt makes a point, but her head and rationality make the decisions. They have for so long. It's what's kept her alive for this long and her dreams and desires have only crushed her heart.

"What does your husband think, little one?"

Her legs rise to curl under her in the cushioned sofa chair. "I have not talked to him." A breath. "But he's grown fond of her." They've talked, not in so many words. Well, she's talked and he's listened. Honestly, she doesn't know what Tony wants. She only knows that he's enamored, the interaction since the hospital as clear as day.

"Heed my advise Ziva, you know what you want, now act on it, but first talk with Tony." Tony. She needed to talk with him. It wasn't only her decision to make and she'd acted like this only affected her.

"I will." But when? Social services would be in the office in the morning to pick up Madeleine and they were running out of time.

"I trust that you will make the right decision." A chime comes from the other end. "I must go Zivaleh. Whatever you decide I am here for you little bird."

A glance at the clock shows they've been on the phone for an hour. She's needed this call. "Toda, doda. We will talk again soon, yes?"

"Soon, my Zivaleh. Very soon." And the phone clicks off.

Pondering on her aunt's words, she returns the phone to its base. If she listened to her aunt, then the decision would be simple. She indulges in allowing that option. But would she be able to let go of the darkness for the child? What if she couldn't? But what if she could. Unfortunately, it was a risk she wasn't willing to take.

Cries of a child foreign to the noises of her home pull her towards the kitchen. The moonlight glow casts shadows in the living room, but the soft glow of the kitchen light guides her to the presence of her husband.

He attempts to soothe the child as the microwave whirls. Feet like feathers she stays quiet at the entrance of the kitchen, watching at the way her husband handles the child. Although the sun threatens to wake the city soon, the smile her husband fronts does not falter. He is more than complacent to be woken by the beautiful girl at four in the morning.

The microwave beeps and Tony shifts the baby to one side to takes the bottle out with the other. Just like she showed him, he squirts the milk on his wrist to check the temperature. The temperature must be at the right degree because he hands the child the bottle, quieting her whimpers.

She doesn't mean to spy on them, but watching her husband with Madeleine just aids in her decision. How could she take the child away from him? He cleans his mess with his free hand and turns to leave the kitchen.

"Hey, where were you?"

Her pointer finger rubs the child's cheek and it catches her attention, loosening her hold on the bottle. "Now who's distracting her?" Tony chuckles.

Ziva removes her hand, eyeing the child. "Sorry." She sighs. "I called aunt Nettie."

"How is she?" She is thankful that he doesn't press for the whys of the conversation.

"Well, concerned I have not called in months, but well." They stand in silence; the sucking noises of Madeleine feeding the only noise between them. "I think I would like to visit aunt Nettie soon."

He stills, the question catching him off guard. "Okay-"

"I would like you to go with me." She cuts in. "That trip we planned, could we change the location?" If her decision tomorrow is to return the child, she would desperately need her aunt.

Tony leans forward, their foreheads kiss and their lips catch up soon after. "I'll see what I can do tomorrow at the office."

"Thank you, ahava." Her lips connect with his once more before her arms seek a different comfort. "May I hold her?" Her eyes fall to Madeleine, too awake for the crack of dawn, and she smiles. This child belongs with them.

"I'm going to miss the munchkin."

She hums her agreement, but the lump forming in her throat prevents further explanation. Nettie is right and she should take a chance. But there's so much at risk. She doesn't know what to do and morning was fast approaching.

...

Mounts of paperwork accumulated from previous cases, occupies the MRCT team midmorning. Though unusually quiet, the relief of no incoming calls is welcomed by the DiNozzo couple. With their team leader out for a coffee run and their probie in Abby's lab, Tony and Ziva take advantage of sharing a desk. Madeleine rests in Ziva's arms and Tony breaks concentration from his paperwork to tease the jovial child.

The stack left to do still outweighs the finished, but two more folders are added to their finished pile and they are one step closer to being caught up. The pair has been otherwise occupied between paperwork and Madeleine that neither has glanced at the clock. They don't notice when noon rolls around and McGee brings them lunch or when Gibbs returns to grumble at them to separate and then takes off for MTAC with the director. The clock strikes three and the elevator dings.

A well-tailored woman finds her way into the squadroom, approaching the only desk occupied by agents.

"I'm looking for Agents DiNozzo and David."

Tony stands, comes around the desk. "Agent DiNozzo, David." He points to Ziva. "How may we help you?"

"Courtney Fromm, child services." Hand outstretched it drops just as quickly. Tony only stares and Ziva hands are occupied with the child. Neither welcomes the woman well. Her arrival means the departure of a little girl who had entered their lives abruptly, but that holds their hearts tightly and won't let go.

"What can we do for you, Ms. Fromm?"

Her gaze falls to the child's before returning to the agents. "May we go somewhere more private to talk?"

Tony leads the way, taking them to an open conference room. Ziva walks in, sleeping child in arms and she finds her seat, the woman soon after, but Tony stands outside and closes the door behind them.

Ms. Fromm points towards the door. "Is he not joining us?"

Ziva shakes her head. "He does not think he can give up the child. He has grown attached." She can't either, but she must. It is for the sake of this child. Her life would be tainted with darkness.

"You are smitten as well." She doesn't deny it. "But from you phone call I assumed-" she ventures off, leaving it openly for Ziva to answer.

"I have questions." Questions she needed answers to before she handed the child over. Though she couldn't keep her, she wanted to make sure that the child would be well cared for wherever she ended up. After Madeleine's feeding, Tony and she hadn't made acquaintances with sleep, instead they'd talked well into the night. She'd listened to Nettie and talked it over with Tony. Both had come to the conclusion painfully, that Madeleine couldn't stay.

The woman leans against the chair, her head molasses as it travels up and down. "Okay, let's answer them." There were many questions.

…

Tony's long returned to his desk, filing away paperwork like a baseball shooter at a free range. Minutes tick by, McGees returned from Abby's lab; Gibbs has transferred from MTAC to the Director's office and back, but no signs of Ziva or the social worker.

No cases have been called in, but it sure seems that their team leader has kept busy. Close to five Gibbs descends to the overview and calls for DiNozzo. "Dismissed for the day, go get your father."

A lost puppy, he glances to his wife's empty desk. "Yes, her too." And he returns to MTAC.

Personal belongings are gathered, computer unused for much except for personal emails and games for the day, he logs off and shuts down. Drawers locked, he makes his way to do the same for Ziva's. He'd debated on just leaving a note or waiting. He didn't want to pick up his father alone. So, waiting it was.

"Abby wants to say bye to Madeleine, you think she's still here?" McGee calls from his side of the squadroom.

Tony stops mid computer shut down and turns to the probie. "Maybe? I mean I haven't seen them leave, but it's been more than an hour." They weren't keeping Madeleine, it had been decided-well mostly Ziva- so what the hell was taking so long.

"You didn't go with them?"

Tony shakes his head. "Couldn't." He shrugs. "Left them in conference room two if you want to send her in." Maybe hurricane Abby could change Ziva's mind or he could send her in as an informant. Either way, he needed to know what the hell was taking them hours.

McGee calls Abby, but the moment the phone hits the receiver Ziva emerges, followed by Courtney and Madeleine in her arms. This was it.

He doesn't dare turn, stays seated in his wife's chair. Only heard the conversation exchange between the pair near the elevator. "I'll stay in contact agent David."

The elevator dings announcing its arrival. "Have a good day." And she disappears between the metal doors.

Ziva arrives around the corner, "you ready to go?"

"Tony?" She calls but he doesn't look up. Just gathers both their things and stands. "Tony?" She calls again.

He looks up and his breath catches. "What?" Clog in his throat and jumbles in his brain. Is he hallucinating?

"She belongs with us." Her smile irradiates a glow warmer than the sun. "And Courtney agreed."

"She's staying?" Madeleine in Ziva's arms was the perfect end to a crappy beginning.

She nods and her smile widens. "For now. We have to follow protocol. We start with becoming her foster parents."

"But-" She was theirs. Damn labels, Madeleine was theirs and she wasn't ever leaving. That little girl was a DiNozzo.

"Hmm, she's our."

Theirs. His family. Nothing could make him happier.

...

Like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, they're late. Like catfish in the hands of an inexperienced fisher, time slipped between their fingers when Abby had caught wind of the new addition to their family. The plasma had been erased of their previous case and replaced with ideas for a welcome home party until Tony had cut her off. Ziva and Tony had profusely argued with Abby that it was all too much for an unknown future. Abby had persisted, wanting a party to celebrate Madeleine's welcome to their dysfunctional family of misfits.

With an invitation to Abby's party and a baby, she hopes Tony's father wouldn't be too mad. He wasn't exactly a patient man. She spots his father- a blonde at his side- good posture, tired body, but dressed eloquently. His father is an excellent deceptor, but a master of his craft. The qualities of a politician, the man is a handful to host and with his plus one, Tony will be unbearable.

Ziva holsters the baby closer to her chest. The airport is a mass of chaos this evening; people reuniting with love ones. Weaving through circles of people, the trio approach Senior and his girlfriend-though in her husband's case, its said through gritted teeth. Forcefully, her husband calls out to his father. The elder man turns, waving his son towards their gathering. They've huddled in a corner, away from the chatter and hustle of the airport. Odd.

Tony takes lead, Ziva watching from afar the exchange between father and son.

"Junior," he greets cheekily and Senior takes his son in a hug. They are always awkward to watch, much like hers and her father.

As if tasered, Tony releases from the hug instantly. He keeps his father at arms length and greets with. "Good to see you dad."

Content, his father smiles and brings forth his blonde companion. "You remember Anna."

"Yes," he nods and his body stiffens. "Welcome to Maryland."

Anna engages Tony in a conversation, desperate to connect with her boyfriend's son. Senior catches a glimpse of Ziva and approaches the pair. He greets her like he always greets her; a smile, a flirtatious compliment and a cheek kiss. But this time he catches sight of Madeleine first and he gasps. "How long have I been gone?"

Her mouth tastes true laughter for the first time in days. "It is not what you think." If he only knew. "But we would like you to meet Madeleine." Madeleine is propped for an introduction to her grand- to Tony's father. Too early for titles. They still had a long road ahead of them, but for now they were content that Madeleine would stay in their family. Monday would soon come to handle the rest. This weekend would be spent in celebration among family.

Tony catches the tail end of Ziva's explanation and his arm snakes around her waist-his favorite spot. "It's a long story dad, we'll explain over dinner." Tony urges them all forward. "Let's go get your suitcases."

In her husband's hold and a baby in her arms, her life feels surreal. Ziva never believed she'd live to see past her 28th birthday, therefore there wasn't much hope for dreams about family or children. She'd lived to see her thirties, gained a family, and started one of her own. There was a different luck in her life. Ziva was certain it was her mother's and Tali's doing.

"Your daughter is precious." A woman stops them, but she walks away without a thank you, leaving Ziva with a melted heart.

Her daughter. Her beacon of hope. Her world complete.

 **A/N We have only the epilogue left on this story. I do apologise for the lack of inactivity I've shown, but I had to take a summer class and it was more work than I expected it to be. I know I've been lacking in replying to your reviews but do know that I appreciate every single one of them. Reviews, follows and favorites feel my day with joy, so don't think they go unnoticed. Thank you for staying with me this long and hopefully the epilogue isn't far behind.**


	4. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 _Eight months later_

Gentle breeze chilling burning sand, she walks towards her buried treasure. Underneath the wreckage, she had found a family. Somalia had cleared a path to her husband and eventually, through unfortunate circumstances, Madeleine. Though Somalia had taken much more than any warrior could bear, life had rewarded her with the sky. Pressure had caused this once piece of abandoned coal to transform into a priceless diamond. Gone was the Mossad carcass and in its presence was a loving woman, mother and wife.

The giggles of father and daughter are a magnetic field, pulling her towards them and away from the lounge chair she's claimed for a tanning booth. Chapter finished, she bookmarks her page and sets it back in her bag. She sprays some tanning lotion, grabbing the sunscreen for their bubbly child and makes her way towards the pair. No progress on the award winning sand castle has been made for it seems that the sand monster knocks down each tower built.

Her daughter catches sight of her and a smile graces her lips, reaching the mountaintops. Her sweet girl. "Mama!" She shrieks and her hands stretch out, palms opening and closing in a desperate attempt to grab her mother's attention. "Ma!"

Warmth surrounds her heart, completely replaced by sorrow that loomed months after Somalia and months after the gut-wrenching news. It was the balm she needed to mend the cracks Somalia had left behind. Shadows no longer linger through the night and the boomerang will never return to its owner. Somalia has been left in the graveyard, buried deep with the forgotten with no return.

Madeleine crawls-still a bit unsteady on her feet- over the sand mountain, knocking down what little progress Tony has made and burrows into Ziva's lap. Her head falls against Ziva's chest, her messy curls, honey against the sun, tickling as they cling to her.

"Are you giving daddy a hard time, tateleh?" Her eyes flutter, lashes casting shadows against her cheeks. Ziva's hand runs like silk through the abundance of curls and her daughter sinks in further, content. Nap time peeps around the corner.

The shake against her chest causes chuckles to escape from deep within for the exaggerated sigh her husband releases, tells her it's far from the truth. But she should know this, Tony builds and Maddy destroys her father's masterpiece, it's the dynamic they've created and neither would change it for the world.

Calloused hands come to sit at her thigh and she looks up, catches her husband staring at her with a questioning gaze. He'd ask something and she'd checked out, again. "Hmm?"

"I asked if you think we should head back to the hotel?" He smiles at her, forgives her for how clouded her heads been. It's been a roller coaster of a year, ups and downs and loop de loops. Maddy's adoption had only been finalised three days ago after months of home visits and legal work. They'd signed the papers and two days later ventured out to the west coast for Californian sun and a much needed vacation. It was their first family vacation, husband, wife, and daughter. Their daughter. Their Madeleine. She was theirs for keeps. "Munckin looks ready to pass out."

"I think so." She agrees. She can feel as Madeleine's breathing starts to even out, the rise and fall of her chest. They'd almost lost her. One mistake from their social worker had almost cost them everything, but half a dozen signatures later Madeleine was theirs and there wasn't a force in the world that would separate them.

Her grip around her daughter tightens, setting her in a comfortable position. Although it's still too early for her nap, the sun was tiring and if they wanted to venture to the museum later that day, they didn't need a grumpy Madeleine on their hands. Usually a well spirited, she was a force to be reckoned with in an ill mood; their little spit fire.

"She's ours Tony." She marvels at the true meaning of her words. Too much damage rings through her mind again and the words, though a powerful weapon hold no power over her. Somalia may have taken her ability to create life, but it had not taken away her ability to cultivate it. She may have not given birth to Madeleine, but she was her daughter. A precious daughter she would guide through the world. Her daughter would live a life surrounded by people who loved her; a big family to share their happiness with, something she and Tony never had. They would make sure their daughter was always loved.

"She's always been ours, Zi. You may not have given birth to her, but she was always meant to be ours." Her husband offers.

And she knew that. Since the moment she saw this precious baby girl, she felt that tug. Madeleine was always meant to be part of their family. But because she was too damaged, life had brought her through other means. Madeleine DiNozzo was her daughter. Their daughter. Somalia had no place in their life. Her wounds were healing. Her family forming. Her life complete.

The end.

 **I want to thank every single one of you for the patience you've shown. I know I've checked out for months, but you know RL gets in the way and steals my creativity. Every time I would sit down to write this out, I just couldn't and it frustrated me to no end because I wanted to wrap this up for you guys. Alas, here it is and I really do hope it was worth the wait.**

 **I have one last request. I really do miss writing and I know I have other stories that need to be complete, but I just can't seem to get back into those for now. So, to help me get back into writing again I'm accepting some prompts. I don't promise that I can fill them all or have one a day, but ill try to write up a few. If you'd like to see a prompt filled, leave it as a review or send me a PM.**

 **Thanks!**


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